ON LOUGH GILL--TWO MEN--STAMPEDE FROM SLIGO--THE ANCIENT AND THE
MODERN.
I was a little disappointed that I was getting no information on any
side of the question of the day, and my letters which were to be sent to
Sligo not coming to hand, I was advised to go down the beautiful Lough
Gill to Drumahaire to see the ruins of Brefni Castle, the place from
which the fair wife of the O'Ruarke, Prince of Brefni, fled with
McMurrough, which was the cause of the Saxon first gripping green Erin.
I thought I might as well, and set out to walk to the boat landing, a
good _billie_ out of Sligo, along the street, past small tenement
houses inhabited by laborers, who do not always obtain work, past the
big gloomy gaol, past the dead wall and the high bank on the top of
which goats are browsing, down to the landing beside the closely-locked
iron gate, and the little lodge sitting among the trees behind it,
belonging to the property of a Captain Wood Martin. Had the felicity,
while yet some way off, of seeing the shabby little boat cast off the
rope and puff herself and paddle herself slowly off down the lake.
Coming back a very pretty girl electrified me by informing me that I was
from America. She advised me to take a small boat and have a sail on
Lough Gill, for I would always regret it if I did not see its beauty
when I had the opportunity. In her excessive kindness she introduced me
to a river maiden, strong and comely, who would row me about with all
kindness for a small consideration. Prudently discovered what the
consideration was to be, and then gave in to the arrangement.
The water nymph had been away gathering sticks; she had to empty her
boat and I waited a little impatiently, a little ruefully. The boat was
big, clumsy and leaky, but the girl was eloquent and eager to persuade
me it was a fast and comfortable boat. She produced an ancient cushion
from somewhere; there was a clumsy getting on board, and she pushed off.
We went sailing down among the swans, the coots and the rushes, and
passed little tree-laden islands, hooped with stone wall for fear they
might be washed away. The sun shone pleasantly, the swans floated on
majestically, or solemnly dived for our pleasure, the coots skimmed
about knowing well we had not often enjoyed the pleasure of watching
them. The grand woods that encompass the residence of Wynne of Hazelwood
spread out over many, many acres, caught the sunlight on one side. The
broad green meadows of Captain Wood Martin lying among the trees looked
like visions of Eden on the other. My river maiden discovered to me a
swan's nest among the reeds; told me stories of the fierceness of
brooding swans, and offered to get me a swan's egg for a curiosity,
nevertheless.
Remarking to her that Captain Wood Martin kept his grounds locked up
very carefully; enquired what should happen if we drew ashore and landed
on his tabooed domain. The water maiden said one of his men would turn
us out. Enquired if he was a good landlord. "Oh, sure he has ne'er a
tenant at all at all on his whole place; it does be all grazing land. He
takes cattle to graze. He charges L2 a year for a yearling and L5 a year
for a four-year-old, and he has cattle of his own on it." How do you
know the price? "Sure I read it on the handbills posted up."
Looking at the other side of the glorious lake, at the long thicket of
trees that shades the demesne that Wynne of Hazelwood keeps for his home
and glory, stretching over miles of country; saw the little grey
rabbits, more precious than men in my native land, that were hopping
along, after their manner, quite a little procession of them, at the
edge of the bush; and said, "What kind of a landlord does Wynne of
Hazelwood make?" "Is it Mr. Wynne, ma'am? Oh, then, sure it's him that
is the good landlord and the good man out and out. He is a good man, a
very good man, and no mistake." "Why, what makes you think him such a
good man?" "Because he never does a mane or durty action; he's a
gentleman entirely." "Come now, you tell me what he does not do; if you
want me to believe in your Mr. Wynne, tell me some good thing he has
done." "I can soon do that, ma'am," said my water maiden. "Last winter
was a hard winter; the work was scarce, and the poor people would have
starved for want of fire but for Mr. Wynne of Hazelwood." "He let you
gather sticks in his woods, then?" "He did more than that; he cut down
trees on purpose for the people, and we drew them over the ice, for the
lough was frozen over. We had no fire in our house all last winter, and
it was a cold one, but what we got that way from Mr. Wynne." Mr. Wynne's
eloquent advocate rowed along the lake close in shore, for fear of any
doubt resting on my mind, and showed the stumps of the trees, cut very
close to the ground, a great many of them indeed, as a proof of Mr.
Wynne's thoughtful generosity.
We rowed along over the laughing waters among the pretty islands, and
finally pulled ashore on the Hazelwood demesne and landed. We walked
round a little bit, filling our eyes with beauty; feloniously abstracted
a few wild flowers and a fir cone or two, and reluctantly left
Hazelwood. Now this gentleman was not a perceptible whit the poorer for
all the cottage homes that were warmed by his bounty--yes, and hearts
were warmed, too, through the dreary winter. "Blessed is he that
considereth the poor." There is riches for you--oh master of Hazelwood!
The emigration from Sligo amounts to a stampede now. How many more would
leave the island that has no place for them, if they only had the means?
I missed that Drumahaire boat no less than three times--that is, she
was either gone before the time when she was said to go, or was lying
quietly at the wharf, having made up her mind not to stir that day. She
seemed to have no stated time for going or coming, or if she had, to
keep it as secret as an eviction, for no one could be found to speak
with certainty of her movements. When disappointed for the third time,
my very kind friend, Mrs. O'Donell, of the Imperial Hotel, took me on
her own car to Drumahaire. We drove completely round lovely Lough Gill,
seeing it from many points of view. Sligo is not altogether a garden of
Eden, for we passed a great deal of poor stony barren land here and
there during this journey. Like all hilly land, there are pretty vales
among the hills and fair, broad fields here and there, but there is much
barren and almost worthless soil.
Now, there is one thing that has struck me forcibly since I came to
Ireland. I saw it in Down, Antrim, Derry, Donegal, wherever I have been
as well as in Sligo. The poorer and more worthless the land, there were
the tenants' houses the thickest. The good land has been monopolized to
an immense extent for lands laid out for grandeur and glory--and they
are grand and gloriously beautiful. Then pride and fashion demand that
the mountain commons be reserved for game, that is, rabbits. A man must
have extensive wilds to shoot over, so the poor laborers are huddled
into houses--awful hutches without gardens, and the poor farmers are
clustered on barren soil, trying to force nature to allow them to live
after paying the rent.
We got to Drumahaire, stopped at a dandy iron gate beyond which the
turrets of Brefni Castle were waving funereal banners of ivy, entered
and found ourselves in a private domain. Here in the shadow of the old
castle was the handsome modern cottage, extensive and stylish, inhabited
by Mr. Latouche, the agent so much dreaded, so much hated in Northern
Leitrim. This is the gentleman who is accused of charging the tenants
10s. 6d. for potatoes which the landlord sent down to be given to the
tenants at five. If racking the tenantry is the condition on which he
gets this lovely home, it is a temptation certainly. We felt as if we
were in the wrong place, as, after glancing at the handsome cottage, the
trim lawn fringed with shrubbery and then at the ruins we took the lower
walk hoping to get round under the shelter of some trees to the ruins. A
small river brawled over the stones below--far below where we were
walking. A detached portion of the ruins sitting on a rock overlooked
both us and the river. Was it in any part of this building that the
naughty lady watched for her lover?
A little further on we looked down some steps into gardens stretching
along beside the river--gardens blazing with flowers and sweet with
blossomed fruit trees. It was so unexpected, so splendidly beautiful, it
surpassed a dream of fairy-land. We passed on, saw a shadowy lady among
the flowers on the lawn, knew it was the wraith of the unhappy and
guilty Dearvorgill. Stole out of the farther gate--at least I did--
feeling naughty and intrusive. Found ourselves in the clean little town
of Drumahaire, a pretty little village, straggled over a hillside among
the trees.
Went into a shop to enquire for the veritable Brefni Castle. A sad and
hungry-looking man scenting a possible sixpence started forward as
guide. He piloted us back by the way we came into the ruins we had
passed. Was determined to see visions and dream dreams amid these
historical ruins. Alas, it was a disgraceful failure. Not only was the
back of the modern tyrannical cottage laid up against the tyrannical
castle of history, but the ancient and modern were dovetailed into one
another, trying to bewilder you as to where ancient history and legend
ended, and modern anecdote began. We looked into the great hall with its
deep fire-place at the side, and upwards where another stately apartment
had once been, a lofty presence room over the great hall, but the week's
wash of the La Touches was flapping in the wind that moaned through the
deserted halls of the O'Ruarke. Looked into a tower to find a peat
stack, climbed over a load of coal to see the withdrawing room of the
departed, but not forgotten great lady, or the kitchen that cooked for
the men-at-arms, who waited on the lord's behest. Peeped into a turret
and was insolently asked what we meant by a splendid but ill-tongued
peacock; admired the ivy green that happed the bare walls and noticed
that the chickens roosted there in its shelter.
We drove home by another way, among gay, green woods under the shelter
of mighty rocks, passed more ruins. We stopped to examine these older
ruins of the ancient O'Ruarkes. A Milesian gentleman showed us through
them. It is the correct thing to have a ruin on your place; it is a kind
of patent of gentility. If a banshee could be thrown in along with a
ruin, a new man would give a great price for an old place. But banshees
are getting scarce and decline to be caught. This ruin has been patched
over, clumsily but earnestly, so that hardly a speck of the original
ruin is left. It was delightful to listen to our Milesian guide. My
companion was bound to get some information out of him. He was cautious,
not knowing who we were or what design we might have to entangle him in
his talk; he was determined that he would not give the desired
information. He conquered. The ruins were not worth sixpence altogether
to look at, but I gave him sixpence as a tribute to genius. And so in
the dim evening we drove back to Sligo.